That's WEST Francis
by EvanescingSky
Summary: France agrees to help Ireland get England out of her country. Unfortunately, as perhaps is to be expected, France makes several large errors that leave Ireland ready to castrate him.


That's _West _Francis

"So we're agreed then?" Ireland asked cautiously. France nodded cheerily.

"We'll be there tomorrow!" he confirmed. Ireland let out a sigh of relief. Then she wouldn't be fighting this battle alone! With the aid of the French, surely overthrowing English power in Ireland would be cake!

"Excellent."

2 Months Later…

"Where the bloody hell is France?" Ireland bellowed through the chaos. All around her soldiers ran in a panic-they were losing badly. She stood at a hastily erected tent, looking over a battle map while the field medic hastily wrapped some gauze around her arm. It was rare he caught her standing still long enough to treat her.

Sure enough, before anyone answer, she grabbed her sword (things were much too close anymore for guns to be of much use) and charged back into the fray just over the hill. She was immediately locked into battle with an enemy soldier. She stabbed at his shoulder, but he swung wide and caught her in the side of the head with his hilt, making her stagger sideways. A hit to the knee knocked her to the ground. A stray boot caught her in the face and blood dripped down her face.

"I've just gotten word from him!" General Padraig announced to the fiery-haired nation as he hacked down the English soldier she was fighting.

"And?" Ireland grunted, swinging her sword into a nearby militia man. Sweat trickled into her eyes and her arm stung with pain. She ducked a strike from another soldier and nailed him in the leg, pushing him towards another one of her men who finished him off.

"He's landed on the wrong side of the island," General Padraig said grimly.

"He WHAT?"

The first thing France heard from his ally was an indistinct shouting, broken and punctuated by Ireland's officers' attempts to hold her back.

"Let me go! I'm gonna kill him. I'm going to break every bone in his body! I'm…General!...damn France!" He caught glimpses of vibrant red hair as she fought to get out of her officers' grips. "Give me that battle axe back! I'm going to hack his balls off with it!" France paled.

"Perhaps it is time we return to base, non?" he laughed nervously to one of his generals. At that moment, however, with a well-placed kick to the shin, Ireland wrenched herself free, battle axe in hand.

"You."

The word was spoken with so much fury and venom that Francis actually took a step back, his eyes widening. Ireland forked her battle axe over to General Padraig as she approached France, her hands clenched into fists. Her face was spotted with blood, her military uniform torn and stained with muck. Her long braid of red hair had become disheveled and the end of it had been lopped off by an enemy soldier. She bore a long cut down one cheek, another large slice on her arm and a gash over one eye with a piece of torn fabric stuck to it as a makeshift bandage. That, combined with her expression, made her look downright terrifying, despite her pixie-like size. Francis half-expected her to start snorting steam out of her nostrils.

Indeed, she was nearly incapable of speech in her rage.

"You. You butter-brained, empty-headed, clueless, rat-faced, frog-leg eating, wine-drinking, womanizing son of a bitch!" she roared. "You are, without a doubt, the biggest moron I've ever met in my life! You idiot! You absolute dunderhead! You toad-mongering, louse-sniffing cretin! You-"

"Ireland," France broke in.

"Shut up!" she snarled, her face twisted up with blind anger. Her face turned a most interesting shade of tomato-red, making it look strongly as though her entire head was on fire. Her freckles were swept up in the wave of crimson. "Shut up! You useless pile of sheep dung! Your stupidity is a cancer on the world! Your idiocy knows no bounds! I should kill you myself, you dress-wearing drama queen! Where the feck have you been? It's been two months you dumb bastard!" she shrieked.

"Ireland…" Commander O'Malley attempted to temper her aggression. Without hesitation, she slugged him in the chest and kept right on going.

"You tried to WALK across my island! Exactly how stupid are you? I have never in my life met such a sorry excuse for a country!"

She paced back and forth, clenching and unclenching her fists, speechless in her fury. France nearly spoke again, but she cut him off before he could.

"All the times my Irish brigade has come to your aid and you couldn't even manage this! You complete and utter thickheaded, slug-brained, long-haired…" She searched for a word bad enough to describe France. "Hedgepig!" she settled on at last, recalling it being something England had once called France. "You addle-brained, unadulterated flirtgill!"

"What does that even mean?" France mumbled.

"Ah, shut yer gob!" Her accent exploded ten-fold in her rage. "You…you slavish, slobbering, obsequious, vacuous moron! I'd like to castrate you to prevent the world from being contaminated with your spawn! Give me one good reason I shouldn't cut your manhood off right now, with my battle axe!" she demanded, glaring fiercely at him, her eyes ablaze.

She was being completely unreasonable! But he bit back his rising tears because he was sure it would result in only more screaming from the furious girl in front of him. And what was that crack about dresses? His tunics were the height of fashion!

"Are you crying? You are! How dare you, you pathetic baby?" she went on. "I should be crying! I just lost a quarter of my men thanks you your dumb ass! How could you mistake West for East? You thundering buffoon! I can't believe I was stupid enough to think that you-ignoramus that you are-were capable of the slightest-"

France couldn't take any more of this, or he was really going to start crying, and that wasn't going to be pretty for anyone. So he did the only thing he could think of to stop her from launching into a fresh tirade. As she opened her mouth to continue, he closed the distance between them and pressed his mouth over hers.

Ireland's eyes flew wide open in shock, her jaw going slack with surprise. Her whole body went rigid and for several heartbeats she didn't move. France, oblivious to the approaching danger, should have heard the Jaws music playing. Ireland shuffled a bit closer to France and he smirked around their kiss-he had her.

That was, until she brought her armored knee up between his legs with all the force she was capable of.

Her kick dropped France to the ground instantly (France fancied he heard a sickening cracking sound), clutching his vital regions. A gargled cry escape his mouth and he moaned as he curled up in a small ball on the floor.

One of the French officers exclaimed and took a few steps towards the nation before the laughter of his fellow officers got to him and he too, burst out laughing. Ireland looked murderous. The punch she had been about to deliver to France's face before he attacked her mouth instead knocked one the French officers breathless. He stumbled backwards, clutching his gut and General Padraig winced in sympathy.

"You stupid idiot," she spat, turning on her heel. "General Padraig! Take a roll, gather our troops and move out! We need to get this English scum out of our land! Let's move out!" she shouted, every inch the commander. "And General?"

"Yes, milady?"

"If you _ever_ suggest an alliance with France again, you'll be where he is now," Ireland said, nodding to France, still incapacitated on the grass. The General nodded, his expression unchanging, yet it one looked closely, it looked as though he'd gone a few shades paler.

Ireland did not forgive Francis anytime soon. In fact, the better part of 125 years passed before she relented. Her anger burned bright and hard throughout her battle with England and after she fell to his power, she liked to accuse France of costing her the war with his mistake. But the years wore on and her will was broken, little by little, her ferocity was chained and destroyed by England. What was she really punishing him for? A mistake? Everyone makes mistakes. It was a big one, yeah, but the point remained nonetheless-he had come to her aid when no one else had. So she forgave him.

* * *

><p>This is actually a true story, to a point. In 1798, the Irish recruited a battalion of French soliders to help them with a rebellion. The French arrived not only two months later, but they landed on the wrong side of the island. After that, they though they could WALK across to the East side, assuming it was small enough to traverse on foot. They arrived with too few troops and only after the Irish had suffered a humiliating defeat.<p> 


End file.
